


Laced

by somethingclever



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Western, Brief mentions of mpreg, Found Families, M/M, Mail Order Brides, Misunderstandings, brief nongraphic mention of pedophilia, love and fluff, not a/b/o, nothing bad happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 00:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17611994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingclever/pseuds/somethingclever
Summary: Steve is a poor kid from Brooklyn, making his living scrubbing floors and living on the Barnes' couch.  Signing up for a mail-order-bride service gets him a few bucks, and he doesn't expect anything to come of it... until a handsome entrepenuer from California sends a telegram, indicating that they could achieve a mutually beneficial partnership.Steve agrees.Mail-order Bride AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This work was a labor of self-indulgent love. I hope you enjoy it! I'll be posting it all today in one shot, since tomorrow I'm going to be induced to have my second kiddo! Wish me luck. 
> 
> Please, comments are love and will give me something to read while I'm in labor.

Steve was to his elbows in lye-water when Becca came running, her face pale as skimmed milk and braid unpinned, “Mama sent me,” she gasped, “A letter came, a letter for you, from the agency-“  
  
He rocked back on his heels, blinking at her silently. A letter for him? From the agency? What agen...  
  
“The mail order?” He asked, wringing out the rag again and scrubbing at the floor, “Probably taking me off their listings...” he’d been iffy about getting on them at all, but they’d paid a bonus up front in cash for registering- even with him being Irish!- and he’d taken the dollar and used it for buying some meat for dinner to share with Bucky and his family after the funeral, and a few stems of flowers for his mother- he bought silk flowers, white roses. They’d last and white wouldn’t fade like red. He’d gotten no replies to his advertisement, and didn’t expect to.

 

After all, there’d been some nice German girls waiting in line with him, and he knew where he stood in _that_ lineup.  But they’d taken his picture and let him write about himself, and then given him his money and sent him on the way with a condescending pat to his bottom.  

 

Mrs. Barnes had gotten him a few houses to clean, usually with Becca, and even with a trolley ride he made okay money doing it- and when he got back, he’d help with the laundry, mostly the finer work of lace-cleaning and repair.  Mrs. Barnes didn’t let him do the ironing or wringing or delivery.  Nobody could afford him getting sick. So he’d slip on a pair of silk gloves, and work with the lace.  The silk was necessary, since scrubbing with lye roughed his fingers up terribly.  The lace-work got good money- better than plain laundry or housecleaning!

 

“I don’t think so,” Becca said seriously.

 

“Read it then,” Steve smiled at her, “I’m nearly done- just stand by the door, so you don’t muck the floor again, and I’ll finish while you read. And pin up your braid,” he sniffed, “Your mama raised you better.”

 

“At least I’m not the one with a hole in my stocking,” Becca said archly, and Steve stuck his tongue out at her.  He didn’t blame her for forgetting to put up her hair, she’d only started that winter.  She opened the letter, and Steve went back to work, eager to finish and go home with Becca- he had been going to go home for lunch, but he’d found a quarter under Mrs. Hudson’s couch and given it to her, and she’d been so happy she’d given him a dime.  

 

Becca and he were going to stop at a diner, and they were going to buy a good thick sandwich, and a pickle, and a coffee, and-

 

“Dear Msr. Rogers,” Becca read out, “I hope this letter finds you in good health and in a position to accept my suit! Oh Steve! Steve, he’s handsome, and he’s got- lookit, Stevie,” she danced on the doorstep, “Says he’s got money! And wants you to come out to…” her face fell, “Oh, Steve, _California.”_ She covered her mouth with her hand, and Steve stared at her, suddenly numb.

 

He’d gotten an answer. He dried his hands on his pants and left the bucket, going to take the letter from Becca’s trembling fingers. There was a daguerreotype enclosed, and he glanced at it.  The man was handsome, he thought, even if his eyes were sharp and his mouth set hard. Maybe he would smile, and it would make him look kind.  Steve looked at the letter, skimming the elegant cursive-

 

California. A house that needed more care than a housekeeper, a young boy in need of watching and ‘civilizing’ (Steve almost laughed) when he wasn’t at school, and while Mr. Stark appreciated the local society, felt his chances at a mutually agreeable partnership would be best met by someone from back East. He hoped they might, in time, come to be affectionate, but had no expectations of offering an indignity to Steve’s person in an unduly fashion.

 

Steve blew out his cheeks, and folded the letter into his back pocket. He’d have two days to answer the agency- if he said no he’d have to pay a fine- and Mr. Stark had written that he’d wired money to the agency for his reply, should it be affirmative. “I’ve gotta finish this floor,” he told Becca, “And then I’ll walk home with you, for lunch.”

 

“Are you-“

 

“I don’t know,” Steve said, “All I know is I’m hungry, and the floor’s half-done.”

 

^

They walked home together, the letter tucked into his pocket and Becca’s arm tucked into his arm.  It was warm for March, so Steve didn’t have to worry too much about his asthma acting up.

 

California was warm all year.

 

He bought some two-day-old bread at the market, and a few winter apples- he’d make some Brown Betty to go with dinner. Maybe it’d help this news go down sweeter.

 

His mind was already made up, anyhow. He wasn’t a drain on the Barnes’, really, with his work being the way it was, but it was only a matter of time before he took sick, or, even more likely, got into a tussle and came out on the wrong end of it. That, and he couldn’t say that sleeping in an armchair for the rest of his life was a goal- although Bucky would likely settle down with some nice girl and Steve would move up to the couch- but where from there? Nowhere. He didn’t have prospects here- he was just one of thousands of poor Irish kids grown up to be a poor Irish man, wouldn’t be able to support a wife, or find a husband, and god knew he’d never be able to feed a kid or three.  

 

The decision just about made itself, logically, and broke his heart to bits.

 

After lunch, he put on his gloves and bent over his work.  Lacework was like art, in a way, and consumed his focus entirely. There was no California, or Brooklyn, just him and the fine threads stretched into the frame.  He worked until the light got too bad even by the window. Straightening, he rolled his shoulders, trying to get the crick out of his neck.  The girls were all home, gathered at the table working on homework-

 

Steve’s belly growled as he smelled the good beef gravy Mama Barnes was cooking to go over mashed potatoes. He set his lace on top of the China cabinet, to keep it safe, stripped off his gloves, and went to pare the apples and grate the bread for Brown Betty.  Mrs. Barnes smiled at him as they stood shoulder to shoulder in the tiny kitchen. She always teased him that it was good he was so small, or he’d be no use to her at all. 

 

His eyes stung with tears, and he bowed his head over the mortar and pestle as he smashed a little cinnamon and mace together.  He would miss her, and the girls, and-

 

“Ma, I c’ld smell supper from the street,” Bucky said as he came through the door, “Smells so good!” The girls crowded around their brother and Steve grinned as he was swept up into the welcoming hugs Bucky passed around as free as a politician with penny-candy in October.  “Stevie, wanna go dancin’? Girl I asked’s got a brother,” he winked, and the girls and Mrs. Barnes went silent, “And- Steve?” He frowned, tilting his head, “S’wrong?”

 

“I got a letter,” Steve said, pulling it out of his pocket and passing it to Bucky, “From that mail-order-bride place.”

 

“The catalog brothel?” Bucky asked, aghast, as he took the letter- Mrs. Barnes rapped the top of his head, hard with her ladle, and Bucky yelped, “Sorry mama, didn’t mean it! Steve-“

 

“Read it,” Steve said, “Go ‘head and read it out, and you tell me if I’m wrong, huh? I’m not. I’m going.” Becca bit her lip, and Bucky read the letter, out loud, and Mama Barnes pulled Steve to her side, holding him so close he could feel her breathing.

 

“It sounds like a _mitzvah_ ,” she said when Bucky finished, “Your Mama would be pleased for you- and the air there, they say, it is better for the lungs, and-“

 

“California?” Bucky said, looking at Steve, “It’s- that’s a real long way, Stevie.”

 

“I’ll write,” Steve promised, “And maybe, maybe visit in a couple years-“

 

It didn’t matter how rich his husband was, there was almost no way he’d pay for Steve to go back east.  

 

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, “Yeah, okay, I- when do you leave?”

 

Steve swallowed, “Gonna go send him a telegram after supper,” he said, “And then, as soon as is convenient- I don’t have anything to wrap up, here, really- Arnie Roth is as good as me on lace, Mama-“

 

“Steven Grant,” Mrs. Barnes snorted, shooing them all towards the wash basin, “Don’t worry about those silly things. You’re getting married, dear, you need to- oh, your best suit needs taken in, we’ll launder and press the linens before we pack them away again-“

 

Oh, hell, Steve thought as Mrs. Barnes started listing all he would need to do before he left- he should have just run away and left a note. Who _cared_ about a trousseau? Bucky started laughing, and Steve joined right in as the meal was served.

 

He would miss this, but going away wasn’t the end, was it? His mother and da had moved from Ireland to give him a good chance.  He’d move to the other end of the country, chasing that chance.

 

Come morning, Steve and Bucky walked together to the train station in silence. Bucky loaded the trunk into the baggage car, and Steve clutched his carpet bag tightly, not just from fear of losing it, but also because the handle was not the most secure item in the known world. He’d kissed Mama Barnes and the girls goodbye at home, and now, all he had left was to say goodbye to Bucky.

 

He didn’t want to. Tears choked in his throat, and Bucky looked at him, his own eyes red and watery. “You take care of yourself, now, punk,” Bucky choked, and Steve jumped at him, arms looping tight around his neck and clinging, Bucky barely even rocking back a step from his weight. “Don’t go doing anything stupid.”

 

“I’m leavin’ all the stupid with you,” Steve whispered, “Buck-“

 

Bucky gently pushed him back, straightening Steve’s tie and jacket and nodding, and then reaching out a hand.  Steve took it, and- “Bucky, no,” he tried to give the money back. “Bucky, it’s too much!”

 

“Mama said if you tried to say that that I’m to tell you that she’s not sending any child of hers off without a dowry,” Bucky said sternly, sounding so much like his mother it was uncanny. “We all pitched in for it, Stevie, it’s not- we ain’t gonna be hungry for wantin’ it. But you- if he doesn’t treat you right, or he’s mean, or, hell, you don’t like the way he snores, you take that money,” he nodded towards the crumpled bill in Steve’s fist, “And you come straight home. Y’hear?”

 

Steve looked down at the twenty dollars, his eyes hot and stinging, “I- I promise, Bucky. I’ll come home, if-“

 

“All aboard! All aboard!” Damn it, just one more minute, just another second, a lifetime-

 

“If _anything_ ,” Bucky said fiercely, hugging him around the shoulders and kissing his forehead, “Okay? Love you, punk.” He boosted Steve up onto the landing of the train, giving the doorman a fierce look, “You look out for yourself, don’t take any guff, and-“

 

“You too, jerk,” Steve said, laughing, “Bye, Bucky.” The train jolted and he stepped into the car, making his way to a seat facing the front.  This train had a few Pullman sleeper cars- and the ticket Mr. Stark had bought him gave him access to them.  He couldn’t believe the extravagance, but then, Mr. Stark _was_ bringing his bride across the country.

 

Steve hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed.  He sank down into the seat and held his suitcase and his breath to keep from shaming his mother by crying. He waved until he couldn’t see Bucky- and he stared out the window until he couldn’t see New York anymore- well, the city, anyhow.

 

Who knew there were _cows_ in New York?  A lot of them. So many of them.

 

Endless trees and hills and fields and _cows_ \- he already missed the city.

 

He made it to lunchtime before he peeked into the bag Mama Barnes had packed him, and his mouth watered- rolls with butter and jam, a slightly squashed paper packet with a chicken leg wrapped in it, and an apple turnover.  He devoured his lunch and eyed the rest of the food- she had packed him some better keeping food- hard boiled eggs still in their shells, cracker pieces in a paper twist, and a good dozen butter shortbreads, that would only get better the longer he waited to eat them.  Some winter apples, too, and he sighed to himself, reminding himself that he wasn’t going to cry over shortbreads and a chicken leg.

 

He passed the time by drawing and looking out the window until it was quite dark, and then made his way to the sleeper car, stopping at the toilets briefly to wash his face and hands and use the convenience. Ugh, he felt so _dirty,_ in a way completely foreign to him, even having grown up in a poor Brooklyn neighborhood, he could always count on a clean nightshirt and linens, and plenty of water to wash in- mostly it was even warm, because his mother believed firmly that if a stove or hearth was burning, a kettle should be on.  Whenever they could afford it, a fire burned under a kettle.

 

You never know when somebody might come by and need a nice drink of coffee or a cup of tea, Steven my boy, she’d say, and they’ll need it sharpish if they need it at all. So the kettle was filled at breakfast and lunch and dinner, and Steve would watch steam whisp up on cold afternoons.

 

He needed it, but water from the fountain would have to do, and then bundle into bed with his clothes still on- if the train wrecked, he didn’t want to be found in a nightshirt!

 

^

A week and a half later, Steve shut the door to his room gently, and leaned against it. Oh, God, he thought, what’ve I gotten myself into?

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve settles into his new home.

Steve jolted awake in a sunny, warm little room, in a bed big enough he could spread out, and sneezed.  The quilt, though lovely, was dusty, and his poor tortured nose couldn’t take it anymore. He pushed back the covers and slid out of bed, taking in the room more thoroughly in morning light than he had last night by lamplight.

 

Someone had _tried_ to clean the surface of the bureau, which had streaks of dust on it, and the floor, too, but there were dust bunnies under the chair, and the chair was clearly a favorite of the housecat’s. Not that Steve minded, he liked cats well enough, but his own mother would have clutched at her hair in dismay if she’d seen the state of the room- unaired linens and all.

 

It made him feel a little better about how the day previous had gone. He had expected to meet Mr. Stark at the station, stop at the clerk’s office to get married, and go home. Steve would finally get to wash the coal-grime and journey off.  He would make him and the boy- or household? Maybe there was live-in help?- a nice supper, and then everyone would go to bed, and-

 

Nice fantasy, wasn’t it?

 

Steve snorted, dusting off his everyday clothes and shaking out the wrinkles, sneezing again as that stirred up more dust. He had work to do, that was plain!

 

He’d been met at the station by Peter, Mr. Stark’s Ward. The young one, like Steve, fell almost in the middle of the female/male spectrum, but clearly hadn’t had a mother to teach him… well, _anything_. Steve shook his head at the memory of that poor child.

 

Peter had been wearing a shockingly red dress with blue trim, which would have looked a bit gaudy but unworthy of comment if only it fit properly, his gangly wrists showing under the bit of lace at the sleeves, and his ankles showing nearly to his calves. He’d been bare-headed as well, and Steve hadn’t wanted to embarrass him by offering his own plain bonnet from his trunk- and perhaps this was the fashion here?

 

He shook hands and smiled at the chattered explanation- Mr. Stark had a sudden business trip, he’d be back in a few days, Peter was so happy to meet Steve and could he call him Steve? Oh thank you, Steve. And Steve must want a wash, and be hungry, so he’d gotten a Dayroom at the hotel, and they’d eat there and then take the carriage home, Peter could drive, it was _his_ carriage, and- wears the journey terribly hard?

 

“Look at the lovely ankles of ‘at one,” a brakeman sneered, lowly, at Peter as they walked from the station to the hotel, after paying to have Steve’s luggage delivered there.

 

Peter blushed and shrank, silent and eyes down. Steve felt rage well up. He was just a-

 

Steve whirled on the man, stopping and pulling Peter around with him. “Look at your fine eyes,” he said loudly, drawing the attention of passerby, “Oglin’ a child.”

 

The man flushed, drawing himself up, “Well he looks-“

 

“Oh, and I suppose because somebody _looks_ ,” Steve growled, confident as he got the attention of several finely-dressed people, all scowling at the man and one of the ladies smiled at Peter, even, “You’ve a right to be a nasty scrub to ‘em? G’wan,” he jerked his chin, “Get.”

 

“Little _bitch_ ,” The man snarled, stepping towards them- and jerked to a stop as Steve’s switchblade flicked open in his hand. He didn’t say anything more as he turned on his heel and went across the street.

 

“Yeah, you better run,” Steve muttered as he put the blade away, “C’mon, Peter.”

 

“I didn’t- I didn’t realize it was so short,” Peter muttered, his head hanging, “Its my best dress and I wanted to look nice-“

 

“You do,” Steve said, taking his arm, “You’d just look _better_ if you were younger, kiddo. C’mon, don’t let that scumbag get you down. You’re young enough to get away with it,” he smiled at the boy, “And I’ll help you let it out some, and maybe we can get your guardian to get some new material, hmm?”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really,” Steve said, “And you can wear my hat when we get to the hotel. I’m wearing pants, so my cap suits me well enough right now. Didn’t wanna wear a dress on the trip,” he shook his head, “More trouble than it's worth.” He _had_ considered changing before he got to the station- but truth was, he didn’t feel femme all that often for clothes, and he didn’t want to make Tony think he was farther that way on the scale than he actually was.

 

“Tony won’t mind which you wear,” Peter said earnestly, “I think you look nice.”

 

“I look grubby,” Steve said wryly, “But thanks.”

 

The hotel food hadn’t been bad, though it hadn’t been good, either. Steve was so grateful to be able to wash he didn’t care. He changed into a clean skirt and blouse, and they were on their way to Steve’s new Home.

 

Without his husband, but, he reminded himself, this was a partnership more than a love story.  So maybe he’d hoped to fall in love at first sight. Maybe he’d hoped they’d shake hands and his stomach would swoop, and Mr. Stark would tell him to use his Christian name.  

 

Bucky would laugh himself sick at Steve being such a romantic.  He blamed it on the reading material available on the damn train, and the sleeplessness, and decided to focus on raising this poor kid properly, since obviously, nobody _else_ was doing it!

 

By the time they got home, it was dark, and Steve took a luxurious full bath in the claw foot tub- he’d have to write the girls about it, he’d only ever cleaned tubs like this, that filled with water from a heated cistern and drained to the cesspit, no boiling on the stove or standing in an inch of water!- and went straight to bed in the room Peter nervously declared ‘his’.

 

And now, looking around, he knew he’d made the right choice.  This place needed a hand on it, badly, and that child was going to grow up wilder than an Irish wake.  He combed his hair, straightened his collar again, and went out to survey the situation.

 

Peter was up already, dressed in slacks and a blouse- clean, but poorly pressed, and Steve made note to correct that first thing. “I figured I could stay home from school,” Peter said, “Since you probably need help-“

 

“No,” Steve said firmly, “I’ll manage. School is important, and I’m not letting Mr. Stark think I think it’s not, just because you want to be the housewife not the outworker. No. You’re going.” He glanced at the clock- still should be plenty of time- “But first show me the pantry, I’ll make you some breakfast and lunch.”

 

“I just go to the tavern for lunch,” Peter said, and Steve turned to him, aghast. “The kitchen!” He protested, “Not the- no, not the front part, and my friend Ned, his parents own it, so Mr. Stark just pays them and I eat lunch with them, I’m not- no.”

 

Thank God Mr. Stark wasn’t an _utter_ idiot, Steve thought sourly, and nodded- it made sense, Peter got a hot lunch without having to walk all the way home, and didn’t have to eat in the schoolroom or yard. “That’s fine then, I’ll make you your breakfast.”

 

“Usually Ned has something I can eat on the way-“ Steve narrowed his eyes at Peter. Breakfast on the way to school?

 

“And if he hasn’t got something?”

 

Peter shrugged, “Stop at the baker’s for a sweet roll.”

 

Steve folded his lips together, and went into the larder. It was bare- a pot of jam sat in the corner, and Steve checked the flour and sugar bins- the sugar was stale but serviceable.  All right, he could make some pancakes, if they had eggs- There were three in a bowl, and he put them in water first, relieved when they didn’t bob up like ice in water. Peter hovered at his elbow, and Steve didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop- poor thing was obviously lonely.

 

“Does Mr. Stark hire help for the house?” He asked as he sifted the flour into the bowl with salt and saleratus - he’d murder someone if that was stale too- and a pinch of sugar. The eggs he handed to Peter, “Beat these together,” he said, “Until they’re frothy, while I make the syrup.” Thankfully, Peter had lit the stove before Steve got up, so it was hot enough to make the syrup. He put in some more light wood, glaring at the supply by the stove as he realized that most of it wasn’t sized quite right for cooking.

 

It was going to be a busy day.

 

“Sometimes,” Peter said, “Nothing regular, not since Jarvis died.”

 

“Jarvis?”

 

“Jarvis was Tony’s childkeeper, because Tony’s mother wasn’t well, and Tony just kept him when he grew up,” Peter said as he carefully cracked the eggs into a bowl and started beating them with a fork, “He died last fall- pneumonia.” Steve winced. “I miss him,” Peter admitted, not looking up, “He took care of us, and Tony was so much happier-“ he shook his head, looking back up at Steve, “But now you’re here!”

 

Poor man. Sometimes a childkeeper was more important than a child’s own mother, and it sounded as if Mr. Stark had been very close to him.  Steve wondered if the beautiful quilts had been his, or the fine stitching on Peter’s dress. He wondered how much of Jarvis he would find in the house.  

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, stirring the sugar syrup together, “I’m here.”  

 

^

Bucky’d be proud of his grasp of dock-working English, Steve thought bitterly as he flailed at the _fecking_ _unnatural chicken_. “Get _back_!” He hissed at it. “I’m takin’ the eggs, you devil beast, don’t go giving me the eye or I’ll make you into stew! Might anyhow!” He roared as it dove for his ankle again, “Bastard!” He managed to kick it away, grab the eggs from the nests, and flee the coop, the bird hot on his heels again. He shut the door, and the bird flung itself at the wires, making a nasty racket.

 

Well, he’d solved the mystery of the fresh eggs, at least- Peter had a little flock of fowl in the kitchenyard, and Steve had naively assumed them tame.

 

Not so, apparently. “Nasty creatures,” Steve grumbled, taking the eggs inside, “Two eggs from a dozen hens doesn’t seem right,” he muttered, “But the hell would I know, never kept a chicken! Why couldn’t he have a nice sensible rabbit or a pigeon, no…” well, at least they hadn’t drawn blood.  Bucky had kept rabbits since they were kids - Steve had had one, too, a Christmas gift, and they’d kept them in the hutch on the roof of their tenement, trading kits for candies or nickels, and bigger rabbits sold pretty good to newer immigrant housekeepers. 

 

He wondered if Becca had taken over the rabbit operation, or if Mrs. Barnes had finally decided it was more trouble than it was worth.  He could see her now, shaking her head even as she saved them vegetable trimmings, complaining that a rabbit wasn’t meant to live on a roof.  Steve remembered holding his rabbit the first time, with Bucky’s arms around him as carefully as Steve’s arms had been around her.

 

He leaned against the larder shelf, letting his head hang.  He’d signed up for this, he reminded himself as his eyes burned, he was taking a chance, making something of himself, and taking the burden off Mama Barnes and Bucky, but-  it was so hard.  The house was big, and with Peter to school, it echoed strangely.  He’d gone through room by room after he’d come back from walking Peter to school and dropping his first letter home at the post office.  The window hangings were finer than any he’d seen, and the furniture was rich and plush, real Oriental rugs covering the parlor and sitting room floors (and there was a parlor _and_ a sitting room) but everything was so dusty and untouched- he could see where Peter had tried to keep things tidy and clean, but he was only a little boy, yet, barely twelve years old, and there was nothing he could do, really, with so much to keep together.  The china cupboard held two full sets of china and silver - real silver _everything_ , not just spoons, or steel scrubbed bright- and crystal glasses along with everyday ones, and-

 

He sat down on the floor and put his head in his hands, taking a deep breath.  He’d manage. He’d manage, and make-do, like his mother and Mama Barnes had taught him.  No use wallowing in self-pity about the state of things, especially when… he laughed, the sound high and echoing in the house.  “It’s too _much_ ,” he told the cat, which had followed him from room to room, purring rustily. “I’ve never even had enough, before, you know, and now it’s too much.  There’s enough money-” he waved at the jar Peter had shown him, saying seriously it was for ‘household expenses’, calling it the ‘petty change’ jar, “To pay rent for a whole quarter, and it’s s’posed to be my _pin money_. I could just go eat t’the hotel and nobody’d say a word, nobody even _could_ , seeing as Mr. Stark isn’t here, but I don’t know… don’t know what to do.” he picked the cat up and cuddled it, “What a problem to have, huh? If Mama Barnes could see me, she’d smack me with her spoon.”

 

The thought of dodging the spoon got him back onto his feet, and he went to the jar.  Well, if it was too much for one person to start with, he’d go get some extra hands for the day.  Somebody in this god-forsaken town must want some work! He knew just where to start looking, too - the dry goods shop.

 

Romanoff’s dry-goods was an emporium by California standards, apparently, but Steve couldn’t help but feel a little proud over how much _better_ stores were in Brooklyn - not that he’d had the money to go get a nice cut of cloth often, or ever, but if he’d had it, he _could_ have.  The owner, Ms. Romanoff, was a lovely woman, who offered him tea since it was a quiet morning, it being a Monday, after all, and told him all the gossip of the town while Steve ordered what he needed from her store, after providing her with enough information on _him_ to be useful (how her eyebrow had arched when he’d said he’d answered an advertisement Mr. Stark placed!), and she told him where to buy the rest, and offered her delivery boy’s services for all the purchases. That was just as well, as Steve had less than no experience with harnessing a horse, even if Peter’s horse, Karen, was apparently completely child-and-idiot-proofed. Steve didn’t want to try his luck and find his guardian angel deemed him ready to live without him, after all!  Natasha sent the delivery boy’s sister with Steve to help for the rest of the day, at a reasonable enough price.

 

So he and Wanda scrubbed floors and beat rugs, wiped windows and dusted, and when Pietro brought the order up- Peter was walking with him, as school had let out for the day - Steve made them all a nice tea and whipped up an omelette with cheese toasts.  They all ate hungrily, and Wanda agreed to return the next day to help get the laundry and mending sorted.

 

^

Steve’s arms and back ached fiercely as he took down the last quilt from the line and dropped it into his basket.  It had taken the full two days, but the house was clean, top to bottom, the kitchen yard was swept and had a few potted herbs - gifts from Peggy Carter, down the road, and Phil Coulson, the neighbor across the way.

 

Phil been kind enough to gift Steve sourdough starter when Steve had realized that the bloody _reek_ from his cellar was, in fact, _not_ the earth itself, as Peter insisted, but rather a starter that had cannibalized itself and worked itself into a foul stew. There were gray lumps bobbing in the acidic water, and the smell was foul beyond reason. Steve might have kicked the jar down the road in a fit of temper - he’d never tell, and Phil had promised to keep his lips sealed, at the price of a batch of fresh mandelbrot from Mama Barnes’ recipe, and a plate of fresh colcannon Steve had made for Peter’s breakfast.  

 

Phil had come from Brooklyn ten years before Steve, and it was nice to have a friend nearby.  His starter was good and lively, too, Steve thought as he smiled to himself, pleased to be able to make good bread without the nasty salt-taste of saleratus. Only so many biscuits you could eat before you went mad, his mother had told him. He’d enjoyed having someone to talk to, someone who knew what it was like to come across the country on a hope and a prayer - even if Phil had thinned his lips when Steve mentioned answering the advertisement.  He’d thought it was pretty common, out here, but apparently not…

 

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and Steve jumped a foot, dropping his basket and whirling, fists up and- “Oh, Mr. Stark,” he breathed in relief, “Peter said you’d be home tomorrow, I wasn’t expecting-”

 

...oh, _dammit_ , he was a mess, wearing work clothes and house shoes, his hair limp and frazzled from sweat, and while the _house_ was clean, _he_ was not.  He blushed, bending to pick up the basket in embarrassment.

 

“Did he?” Mr. Stark’s eyebrows were raised, one hand resting on his hip, “Huh.” Peter came thundering out of the house, launching himself from the top stair, giggling as Mr. Stark caught him and spun him. “Hey, Peter-pie, how’s my boy?”

 

“I _missed_ you!” Peter said, bouncing in place, looking both pleased and nervous- the same expression Becca got when she tried to pull one over on Bucky, actually- “And you met Steve, isn’t he the best?”

 

“Steve, huh?” Mr. Stark held out a hand to Steve, but looked at Peter, “Steve, can you give me a minute with Peter?”

 

“Of course,” Steve said, “I’ll just go,” he raised the basket awkwardly, “I’ll go make the beds.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony meets his bride, and there's a wedding. Of sorts.

Tony watched as the young man carried the basket of laundry inside, trying not to stare- it was rare to see a man so high on the spectrum dissheveled so, and somehow, it made an already appealing boy even _more_ appealing. He looked capable, competent, and seeing how he carried himself- well, Tony had a type, and that little blond was it.  Petite and not-quite-pretty, except maybe if the light hit him right, and damned fine eyes-  if he’d come across Steve in the street, dressed to the nines- or maybe in a plain suit and cap- he’d have followed to pay him addresses.  Probably.

 

But he hadn’t, he’d met him in his own dooryard, doing _his_ bedding, looking tired and sweetly worn on the edges, with chapped hands and a clean apron. It did things to him, true, but- “What in _blazes_ is going on, Peter?” He knew that look on his ward’s face all too well- guilty and hopeful and the _last_ time he’d looked that way, he’d sent away for his first patent.  

 

“I’m not sorry,” Peter said, “I’m not, and I won’t be. Steve’s from New York City, and he’s smart and kind and clever and funny, and he answered me when I wrote to his ad.”

 

“His… ad?”

 

“Well,” Peter shifted, “It was in the catalog from the- he’s a mail order bride, I asked him to come out here. He’s exactly-“

 

Oh, _hell_. “Exactly what, Peter?”

 

“What you described to Colonel Rhodes,” Peter said, blushing, and Tony stared at him in horror, realizing what he meant.

 

He’d been half-drunk, mourning Jarvis, and Rhodey had asked if he’d get a housewife or husband, and Tony had, maybe, waxed a little eloquent over what he liked in a person, and had ended with, “But nobody would have me, Rhodey, even if somebody li’that existed,” and now Peter…

 

He should send him back, go into the house and apologize, tell him Peter meant no harm, and apologize, then pay him handsomely and send him on his way.

 

“I wish you hadn’t,” Tony said, “It’s not that simple, ordering a person from a catalog.”

 

“It _is_ ,” Peter said, “He’s- you’re going to send him away, aren’t you?”

 

“I have to,” Tony said, “I’m not marrying, and he can’t stay here without it- what did you think would happen, Pete?”

 

“You’d meet him and fall in love,” his son hung his head, trying to hide tears. “Or at least- he agreed to a partnership,” he looked up, his lips trembling and eyes pleading, “He said in his letter- please, Tony.”

 

“It doesn’t work that way for adults, honey,” Tony hugged him tightly, “I’m sorry, I truly am, and I- tell you what, next trip you come with me, okay? I _have_ left you alone too much. This is my fault.”

 

“The house is clean,” Peter choked, rubbing his eyes, “And he fixed my dress Jarvis made me. And he makes nice dinners, and-“

 

Tony swallowed hard, holding his boy close, “Peter, I wish you’d told me you were so unhappy.” He remembered Jarvis, when he was Peter’s age, how he’d- all the things Maria had never done, that Howard said Tony didn’t, shouldn’t need, but that Tony had so desperately wanted. Peter deserved a nice house. And- was there something _wrong_ with the dress? Peter wore it every Sunday, it had looked fine last week- “C’mon, kiddo, let’s go inside and you can wash your face, all right? I won’t send him packing tonight.” The dooryard was no place to let a boy of Peter’s age cry his eyes out, after all.

 

Peter was still sobbing, quietly, as they went inside. “See?” He pointed, and Tony took in the scrubbed floors and tidied _everything_ , his own spare boots set neatly by the door and polished, waiting for him to come home.  He felt his own throat tighten at seeing it, the careful way the post was stacked on the entry-table, not flung hap-hazardly about, and-

 

Something smelled lovely. He went to the kitchen, Peter on his heels, and saw Steve pinching the crust on a pie, looking up to greet them as they came in- his smile dropping from his face as he looked at Peter, then Tony, and Peter darted across the room to bury his face in Steve’s neck.

 

“What,” Steve asked, his voice low, soft, and venomous, even as he wrapped a hand carefully around Peter’s waist, “Did you _do_.”

 

Tony took in the plate full of cookies, a cloth-covered bowl smelling of yeast and sourdough, Peter’s nearly-neat hair, Steve’s fingers brushing it back from his face the way Jarvis had, when he was Peter’s age and Howard had- had-

 

He swallowed tightly, “I spoke too quickly and out of turn,” he said, “Peter tried to be kind, and surprise me, but I was too surprised, and- well.” He scuffled a foot on the floor, “It’s just as well you’re here, isn't it, Peter? Keep me from putting my foot in it _too_ much, hey?”

 

“There’s only so much mortal man may do,” Steve said darkly,

 

“Just as well you’re an angel,” Tony muttered, and Steve went pink, gently pushing Peter back and tipping his chin up to look at Steve.

 

“Go wash your face,” he said, “And if you go into my room, there’s a little pot of cold cream- put it on your eyes.”

 

“Yes’m,” Peter sniffled, looking at Tony with wide, hopeful eyes.

 

“So,” Tony said uncomfortably, “Not that it matters, since it’ll be Stark soon enough, but remind me what your last name is? Been so long since I read it…”

 

Steve smiled at him, “Rogers.”

 

Rogers. Probably should be O’Roger, with skin like that, but Tony lived in a glass house, himself, and nobody cared what a half-Italian Jew did or did not do. Well, at least, not Tony.  He had enough money to be treated white, at least, even if half the men he did business with shook his hand with fingertips and the _other_ half were just waiting for the United States to start a pogrom of its own. They’d pick his bones clean, then, and he shut down that line of thought as a rap sounded at the door- his bags. “I’d better go freshen up,” he said, “Do your dinner justice.”

 

“It’s only chicken and gravy with cream peas and potatoes,” Steve muttered, obviously frustrated as he checked the oven with his hand and shoving in more dry wood, “If I’d known you’d be here, I’d’ve made something a bit less plain- but at least there’s pie?  Or will be, when I get this stove to heat.”

 

“I love pie,” Tony said earnestly, “And I eat fancy food so much it turns my stomach. Jarvis used to make me chicken matzo ball soup-“

 

“Mama Barnes had her own recipe,” Steve’s face lit up, “I can make it, if you like, tomorrow maybe?”

 

“I’d like that,” Tony said, and fled the kitchen. If he wasn’t careful, he’d say something rash, like, ‘May I court you’, and then what a mess that would be.

 

Over dinner, Tony listened to Peter’s report of the last week, and frowned heavily when Peter told him about the man at the station. “Do you need a bodyguard?” He asked, “You do. You need one. Jeez. Why would anybody- he still has _milk teeth_ ,” Tony complained to Steve, who was smiling into his potatoes, “Why would _anybody_?”

 

“Well,” Steve said, “I don’t think Peter needs a bodyguard, really. We handled it just fine.”

 

“Pulling a knife is not fine.”

 

“Worked fine for me,” Steve shrugged his shoulders in a _very_ unladylike way, smile turning mean and sharp, “Used to work just fine in Brooklyn, too.” Tony scowled, folding his arms.  It was not fine, and Tony should have been there to protect both of them.

 

Dammit.

 

After supper, Steve caught Peter by the nape of his neck as he tried to slip out, raising an eyebrow as he looked at the dishes, “You know better,” he said gently, chiding the boy, “Help clear and wash the dishes- Mr. Stark might read us the paper while we work if we ask nicely.”

 

Mr. Stark? No, that wouldn’t do, “Please, call me Tony,” he begged, “Or I’ll have to call you Mr. Rogers.”

 

“Tony, then,” Steve said, going pink again and lowering his eyes. Tony had to shake himself to go fetch the paper to read, because all he wanted to do was stand and pull the man close, press a kiss against his soft mouth, and-

 

Well, apparently his body and baser self had decided that if they were wed by need they were wed indeed.  He opened the paper, cleared his throat, and began to read aloud, his heart aching as he remembered reading for Jarvis as he would iron by the fire.

 

He felt at home again, and when a cup of tea and a cookie appeared at his elbow, he took a break to sip it gratefully, and smiled as Steve taught a sulking Peter how to darn his own hose.

^^^

In the early morning dim, Steve could still hear, faintly, Bucky’s breathing and Mama Barnes getting up for the day.  He screwed his eyes shut tighter and covered his ears with his hands so he could stay with them just a moment longer… but no use, the spell of dawn was broken, and the sounds he heard were his new family, not his old one. 

 

If he could call it a family.  Mr. Stark- Tony- had seemed so shocked to see him, and then by turns cold and distant, and overly familiar.  Perhaps he’d thought Steve would be more… something… than he was. Or, maybe Steve’s daguerreotype was more pleasing than his person. After all, you couldn’t see his chapped hands, or his crooked spine. 

 

But before retiring, after Steve had sent Peter to bed, Tony spoke. “We’ll go to town tomorrow and get married, okay? No sense putting it off, is there?”

 

He’d nodded, bending over his mending, making his throat work over the sound, his lips shape, “Yes.”

 

So today was his wedding-day.  He did nothing more than splash his face and comb his hair before running downstairs to stoke up the fire, whisking together biscuits and putting gravy on to heat.  That, with the soaked oatmeal, would be a decent enough breakfast. He settled the coffee pot to boil, ducked out the backdoor with the scrap bucket for the damned bastard chickens, and then ran back upstairs to have a proper wash and dress in his best clothes.

 

He’d pressed his skirt and waist and brushed them so they looked almost as good as new, and his shoes were nearly new, his stockings  _ were _ new, and so was his best hat.  He washed and dressed carefully, putting on a few drops of lavender and sandalwood cologne Becca had given him as his going-away gift.  He combed his hair neatly, and put a good apron- with sleeves- over all, and took a deep breath for courage.

 

Tony was shaving in the bathroom with the door open, dressed in only his trousers and shirtsleeves.  Steve felt his ears flush hot, and he dropped his gaze to the floor as he scuttled past, knocking on Peter’s door, “Time to get up, dear,” he said, “Or you’ll be late.”

 

The crash from Peter’s room made him laugh on his way down the stairs, some of the heaviness in his heart lifted by the sound of the boy frantically rushing about his room.

 

By the time he’d stirred up the gravy and poured the coffee, the biscuits were done. He turned them out, setting them on the table with the butter bell and jam-jar. There was milk for Peter and cream for the coffee- as much as he could want, no spoonful each- and Peter slid into his chair with Tony coming behind at a more sedate pace.

 

He’d put on his jacket, but Steve couldn’t forget the curve of muscles in his arms.  He sat down across from Tony, and poured himself some coffee, willing his hands not to tremble.

 

Everything tasted the same, though only Steve seemed to realize it.  

 

He cleared the table and washed the few dishes as Peter filled the woodbox and Tony went and hitched his team to the carriage.  Chores done, he closed the damper on the stove, hung his apron and settled his hat on his short hair, checking his face in the looking-glass by the front door.

 

Luminous eyes stared out of a pale, serious face, and Steve shook his head, pinching his cheeks for color- not that he’d get any- wishing he had Becca’s complexion, or his own mother’s sweet mouth. “I look like a changeling,” he muttered bitterly, and pulled on his only pair of gloves before he stepped onto the porch.

 

Peter ran past, waving goodbye over his shoulder as he pelted down the hill towards the town and school and where Steve could just see Ned waiting for him.

 

He forgot about his fey-touched face when he saw the two-wheeled buggy hitched to a pair of perfectly matched flaxen chestnut horses, their coats gleaming red in the morning sun as their manes and tails glistened silvery-gold. He’d never seen such horses, and for as little as he knew about them, he knew they were beautiful- and pricy.

 

Once again, he was struck with the disparity between himself and Tony as Tony grinned at him, waving at the pair, “Your chariot awaits,” he said, bright brown eyes sparkling and a beautiful smile stretching across his face as he handed Steve into the carriage.  His suit was beautiful, the finest cloth Steve had ever seen, and he pulled his skirt close around his legs as he sat, feeling small, and poor, and-

 

Well, he  _ was _ , he thought to himself, folding his hands and staring straight ahead at the horses’s heads, he was poor, and little, but he worked hard and had done well in school- and this was America, after all.  His mouth opened, and words tumbled out, flat and ugly, “You don’t have to do this,” he said.

 

Damn it.

 

Tony looked at him, surprised, “Do what?”

 

“Marry me,” Steve said, “I know- you’re wealthy. I’m not.”

 

“You’re young. I’m not.” Tony said bluntly, his mouth turning down at the corners, “You can cook, I can’t. You- god help me- are able to understand Peter in a way I can’t come at, no matter how hard I try. Money cannot buy the affection you show that boy. I would know. Any other objections, Msr. Rogers?”

 

Steve closed his mouth, hard, and shook his head. “Perhaps you’d better rethink for yourself,” Tony said, “I’m arrogant, eccentric, often distant, and I keep odd hours. I have a ward who may as well be my son- I wouldn’t give any child of my own place over Peter, in anything- and-“

 

“That’s enough,” Steve said sharply, “You’ve made your point, there’s no need to belabor it. Let’s, then, since we’re both agreed on how terrible an idea it is, but want it anyways.”

 

“With an attitude like that, you must have been a nightmare to raise.”

 

“Oh, I was,” Steve smiled, and Tony looked at him, raising his eyebrows. “Bucky and I got into all  _ kinds _ of rows and scrapes. This once, the nuns-“ and he forgot himself in telling Tony about his family, about Brooklyn, and in making Tony’s frown ease into a smile and laughter.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man's a man, the whole world round. Good, or bad.

Being married didn’t change much, except that Steve didn’t need to hide the way he looked at Tony, and sometimes, Tony looked back.  Those times were pleasant, even if they were rare.

 

They settled into a routine; Steve kept the house, and Tony worked in his workshop, surfacing for meals during the day, and to spend time with Peter in the evening after supper. He found himself wishing for more, sometimes- and treasuring the days Tony lingered over lunch, talking to him about his patents, or the news, or Peter’s latest scrapes.  Steve would sit with his cup held between his hands, drinking the companionship as much as the coffee.  Tony seemed to enjoy it, too- and smiled, when he made Steve laugh.

 

Steve made up a new wardrobe for Peter with Wanda’s help and Natasha’s guidance on patterns and style- he bought a pair of silk gloves to protect the fabric, and bought lace for the throat, even as he worked to replace it with his family’s pattern, handed down from femme to femme. It would feel good to see his pattern on Peter, and know he belonged, even a little.  Natasha eyed him, and told him bluntly he needed to make _himself_ some things as well, but Steve shook his head.

 

No point putting plumes on a chicken, after all.  That, and while Steve didn’t hesitate to ask for money or credit for Peter, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do the same for his own account. Tony didn’t offer him pin money, and Steve didn’t ask.  His clothes were fine, and had plenty of wear in them, he told himself firmly as he worked. 

 

Then, of course, his peaceful existence was turned on its ear as Tony announced the entire family would be traveling to Los Angeles as he met with Mr. Stane for a month or so.

 

On the one hand, Steve would be unspeakably grateful to be in the city again. But on the other hand… he shrugged it off, the knowledge he’d look the part of a childkeeper and not a housewife sitting uncomfortably in his chest.

 

Steve looked around Tony’s penthouse suite in silent awe, from the neatly uniformed staff to the marble floors, to the long windows and high ceilings- he swallowed tightly, raising his chin as Tony spoke to the _butler_ , introducing him briefly and telling the woman jovially that she was to ‘mind the missis’, even as he waved Peter into the outfitted schoolroom, where a tutor was already seated behind the desk, looking starched and stiff.  Steve’s heart sank as the schoolroom door closed, and Tony also disappeared into his study, leaving Steve standing in the drawing room, sweat beading along his hairline as the maids and butler looked at him with nearly the same expression as Mama Barnes would a rat terrier in the house when she’d not _sent_ for one.

 

“Of course,” the butler said smoothly, looking down her nose at Steve, “Shall I have Mat press your evening dress, so you’ll be suited for supper?”

 

He should have asked, he should have _begged_ , he was a _fool._ “Thank you, I prefer to handle my own wardrobe,” he said coolly, “You’re dismissed.”

 

None of them moved.

 

The butler snapped her fingers, and the maids filed out.

 

Dammit.

 

“Of course, Msr.” She dipped her head, “Ring if you have any need of assistance, or would like a little lunch. Supper will be brought up at six thirty.”

 

“Peter will eat in the schoolroom,” Steve said, “And lunch at noon. Please also have coffee brought for Mr. Stark, he likes-“

 

“We are _well accustomed_  to Mr. Stark’s and young Msr. Parker’s needs,” she interrupted, “And will fulfill them as always.”

 

He wasn’t needed, not even to order coffee. “Thank you,” he said coolly, and she nodded once before bowing herself out.

 

Well, he may as well go look around the room- he didn’t have anything better to do, after all.  He’d just bent down to look at the bookshelf when he leapt upright, nearly braining himself on the shelf above.

 

The man who’d grabbed his arse smirked down at him, stepping in closer- so close Steve could smell the fine cigars on his coat, so close he could almost taste the brandy the man held in a glass. He leaned over Steve, a position meant to make him feel small.

 

It made him _angry_. “You’re new,” the man said, while Steve was still catching his breath, “Awfully pretty, too, for a chambermaid.”

 

“I’m not,” Steve growled, pushing his fingers hard just below the man’s ribs, making him grunt and lurch backwards, “What are you doing in our apartments?”

 

“Obie!” Tony called from his office, “Is that you? Come in, I’ve the _best_ idea-“ he stepped into the room, glancing between Steve and- Obie. Obadiah Stane? _This_ creep was Tony’s Obie? “I see you’ve met Steve?”

 

“Steve?”

 

“Steven Stark,” Steve held out his hand to shake, palm to the side instead of down- a masculine motion instead of femme. Obadiah took it, pumped once, staring down at him with an odd expression. “I’m sure it will be a pleasure,” Steve said, his smile unmistakeably chilly.

 

“Likewise- I’m sorry, I mistook you for- you must understand-“

 

“Of course,” Steve replied, “I understand that you can’t tell the difference between a traveling suit and a maid’s uniform.”

 

“Oh, Damn it,” Tony said angrily, “Obie, you’re free to stay, of course, but I do actually need to go out for an hour or so- Steve, get your hat, my dear.”

 

Dear? Steve puzzled over that fondness as he collected his hat and handbag, wishing he’d thought to wear trousers- but he knew the waist and skirt suited him nicely, or, at least, as nicely as anything else he owned-

 

Tony led the way, and took his arm as they stepped out of the hotel, “I feel I may have missed something between you and Obadiah?” He asked lightly.

 

“Nothing of any consequence,” Steve replied, shrugging- it wasn’t as if _Tony_ was likely to see the handprint he could feel forming on his bottom. “He startled me, that’s all.”

 

“Ah,” Tony nodded, “I hope-“ he frowned, and started again, “I, Ah. Well, you’ll see.” He tugged Steve up the steps to a- dress shop?

 

This was unlike any dress shop he’d ever seen, cloths and mannequins and fashion dolls, and-

 

“This way, Mr. and Msr. Stark,” a young woman said, looking at them over her spectacles. She led them into a room with a sofa and an arm-chair, a rack full of clothing, and a screen in the corner.  The lady took his hat, and- “Come with me, dear,” an older man said, taking Steve’s arm gently from Tony’s grasp and guiding him behind the screen.

 

There were underthings and stockings and pretty shoes, lace and plain, and Steve’s breath caught in his chest even as the man’s deft fingers came to help unbutton his waist, taking it and setting it aside carefully, as if it weren’t a rag compared to the clothes here.  “Shall we start with a walking-dress, Mr. Stark?”

 

“And something for dinner,” Tony said from beyond the curtain, “You’ll have at least a day to finish up the evening gowns- and I’m sure you can simply send the suits over this evening, but we certainly need the daily and dinner dress _now._ ”

 

“That won’t be a problem,” The man said.

 

“Tony?” Steve questioned breathlessly- he’d been efficiently stripped to his drawers, and a new chemise settled on him, a light corset- nothing tight, just enough to accentuate his waist, make his bust appear- he blushed at himself in the mirror.

 

“I thought you’d like some new things,” Tony said, “Especially ones you didn’t have to sew- I thought it would be a treat, I don’t mean-“

 

“Thank you,” Steve breathed, fingering the fine lace edging the petticoat, his eyes stinging. He’d never touched anything so lovely. “How did you know my measurements?” Even at a glance, he could tell that everything would fit - or was so close as to only require the slightest bit of taking in or letting out.

 

“I’m an engineer,” Tony sounded insulted, “The day I cannot measure by eye is the day I will retire!”

 

Steve flushed, thinking of Tony looking at him, looking at him long enough to _measure_ him. His skin tingled, and not just from fresh fabric being drawn over it. Even the underclothes were perfect, demure without being dowdy, made of fine cotton and silk.  The walking dress was simple, well-cut navy blue with beautifully tatted white lace at the cuffs and throat, a delicate gold watch-chain and new watch finishing the outfit.  Steve stepped out from behind the screen, feeling suddenly shy. “Tony, I can’t thank you enough,” he said, smoothing his hands over the fabric- thankfully it wasn’t so fine that his rough fingers would tear it- and smiled at Tony even though he could feel that his eyes were full.

 

“Oh,” Tony said softly, as if Steve were an engineering problem he’d solved, “You look- you always look beautiful, but that…” he shook his head, “Well, take it off, you’ve others to fit.”

 

“It’s too much, isn’t it?”

 

“Steve, no. If anything, it’s not enough.” Steve let the man guide him behind the screen again, and this time, it was trousers and a blouse with a jacket- the cut subtly different from Tony’s, accentuating his waist rather than his shoulders, and ribbon instead of a tie at the collar of the shirt, the cuffs linked with blue stones set to look like flowers.

 

Tony looked just as struck with that outfit, looking Steve up and down and nodding, his eyes hungry. Steve felt both shy and pleased, and somehow, powerful.

 

A woman returned to the room before Steve could put the walking dress back on- she guided him to a low toilet table, and had him sit facing the mirror as she took his hands and a bowl of sweet scented water and a pumice stone.  “Use this lotion once a day- twice if your hands get dry,” she told him as she mercilessly scrubbed his hands and rubbed them with a brush and a stone, smoothing our the roughness and filing back his nails. He blinked at her, and at his now-smooth right hand, and then looked back in the mirror- and saw Tony had come around the partition and was watching, a small, warm smile on his face, his hands thrust into his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

 

Any protest Steve might have made died at the sight- he’d seen that look before, years and years before, when Mr. Barnes had given Mama Barnes a new brooch, one set with a little gold strawberry in the center of the mother of pearl. He’d been so happy to please her.

 

Mama Barnes had let him be pleased, even if she could have spent that money ten different more useful ways.

 

“Souls need to be fed as much as bodies,” she’d told him and her girls over the dishes, her voice soft and low, the new brooch glistening in her clean but worn collar, “And you feed them best with joy and being gracious. Let your partner treat you, and you treat them. You’ll keep body and soul healthy that way.”

 

Steve had fed Tony’s body, but now his soul was hungry. “Thank you,” Steve said, “I love all of it.”

 

I love you, he thought, and that your soul hungers to bring me joy.

 

^^^

Life in town was a whirlwind of morning ‘promenades’ (a walk with Peter), afternoon tea with fine femmes of the town (at first they snubbed him and called him ‘Bridget’, but Pepper Potts, Tony’s longtime friend and legal assistant put an end to that), and dinner parties.  In between, Steve worked on learning etiquette with Peter and his tutor, and reading.

 

He’d never had a chance to read so much, and he found himself staying up far into the night to finish books, and falling asleep on the couch perhaps a little too often.  When he fell asleep there, Tony would come to him and carry him to his bed, and lay him down gently.

 

Steve shouldn’t enjoy that as much as he did, nor pretend to fall asleep on the couch, but, well. He was only human, and Tony’s gentle kiss to his forehead was a benediction he craved.

 

Despite the easy pleasure of his days, there was a fly in the ointment: Obadiah Stane.  And what a horsefly he was, Steve thought crossly as he smiled charmingly at the man’s fifth inappropriately tinged joke - which Tony didn’t seem to notice as he engaged in a rousing conversation with Pepper and Colonel Rhodes.  Peter, fortunately, was too young to understand such humor- or so Steve hoped, glancing at the boy he considered his son and seeing a blush darkening his cheek.

 

Not too young, then.  “Please remember the company present,” Steve said mildly, setting his fork aside.

 

“I’m sure I can’t forget it,” the man said, smiling at Steve and letting his gaze linger over him.  He did, however, turn his discussion to more appropriate subjects, engaging Peter in a discussion of the steam engine they’d installed at the plant, and inviting the boy to tour it with him.

 

Steve waited for Tony to say no, of course Peter could not go to a factory unchaperoned with a man unrelated to him, but Tony nodded, “Steve and I won’t be able to join you, but you’ll love it.”

 

“And Perhaps on the way back, we’ll stop at a restaurant,” Stane smiled at Peter, who looked eager and hopeful, “And an ice-cream parlor.” Tony nodded, and Steve stared at him.

 

“Tony,” Steve said quietly, “Let’s work out the details later?” Questioning a man in front of his friends could not end well.

 

*

“You can’t let him go with Stane unaccompanied,” Steve protested for the fiftieth time, “And to a restaurant and an _ice cream parlor_? Tony, if you’d asked _me_ -”

 

“I _married_ you!” Tony threw his hands up, “And Obadiah is practically family, Steve, he’s always taken an interest in Peter.”

 

“That makes it worse,” Steve said, “And he isn’t family, Tony, he’s your partner.  A man his age-”

 

“Oh, when it’s _your_ practically family, it’s all right that you shared a room,” Tony sneered, “And sometimes a _bed_ with Bucky, but when it’s my friend, you see a lecher ‘round every corner! Peter can go, Steven, and that is all I want to hear of that.”

 

“At least let me go with him,” Steve pleaded, but Tony shook his head, his cheeks flushed.

 

“They’ve done it countless times, I tell you - Peter would tell me if anything was awry, and what’s more, he enjoys these trips. It does him no harm to be a little spoiled, god knows you don’t do it-”

 

Steve stood, “Good night, Tony,” he said sharply, going to his room - brushing past Peter who’d been listening at the keyhole.  Well, good. He should know about Steve’s concerns.

 

*

“Steve?” Peter asked, sounding uncharacteristically timid, his head bowed over his fancy-work.  It was a rare afternoon in, an unseasonable chill in the air, and Tony was busy with a meeting with Stane and Pepper and Colonel Rhodes, leaving Steve and Peter at loose ends after Peter’s schoolday was over.  Peter had been pleading for Steve to teach him some more embroidery, and truthfully, it hadn’t taken much to get Steve to acquiesce.  He’d always loved the way stitches came together to make pictures, colors blending and outlines forming under his fingers. He’d only ever gotten to make a sampler or two, but when he’d cleaned houses, he’d sometimes peeped at the works hanging or being completed.

 

“Mm?” he glanced up from his mending, his mouth full of pins.

 

“Can I ask you something?”

 

...odd. Steve spat the pins into his palm, turning them dextrously and thrusting them into his flannel strawberry, “Yes, of course. What’s troubling you?”

 

“Is it-” he blushed, “Is it true there’s a medicine to keep you from getting pregnant?”

 

Horror swept over his soul, but he kept his face a blank and his fingers moving over the split seam.  If he showed his feelings, he’d frighten Peter into silence. “Where did you hear about that?” he asked, “And why do you ask? You’ve only just come to age of bearing, it’s normal to fluctuate-”

 

“No, not that, I’m, I just…” Peter shook his head, “I don’t _want_ to have children, but I- Steve, don’t be angry?”

 

“Peter,” Steve pulled him into his arms, like his own mother had when he was small and hurting, “Not with you, dear. Tell me? We’ll work something out to help you if you need it.”

 

“I don’t,” Peter said, clinging to him like a child - he was so young, Steve reminded himself, for all his height, “I mean, not that, just - I didn’t mind when he’d kiss me, but he’s been saying we should run away together and-”

 

“He who, Peter?” Steve asked gently.

 

“Mr. Stane,” Peter whispered, “He’s really nice to me and everything, I _do_ love him, but - but I don’t want to have children, or, I want to finish school, and he says I can but he says Tony won’t understand, and he _won’t._ ”

 

Steve’s blood ran cold, “He’s kissed you?”

 

“Just the cheek,” Peter said, “And held me on his knee a few times, I didn’t think it would be good to - anything else - and he mostly wrote me letters, and send little presents- I just don’t know what to do, really.”

 

“Can I see the letters?” Peter nodded, and went into one of his cubbies in his desk, handing a small packet of letters to Steve.

 

Steve nodded, “Thank you. And yes, there is, but it can kill you, too.” he looked up at Peter, taking his hands in his own, “And it’s okay not to want children. With you being in the middle - like me - chances aren’t the best for it. It’s… do you even really want to know, Peter, or can you wait?” the boy looked absolutely _miserable_ , his head bowed and his hair falling into his face.  

 

“I don’t want to,” Peter muttered, “I want - I know it’s childish, but-”

 

“You’re a child,” Steve said, “Growing into a wonderful young man, yes, but you’re still a child. It’s all right to want to be young when you _are.”_

 

Peter nodded, and Steve smiled at him, “Do you trust me?” Peter nodded, “I’m going to take care of this, then, all right?” He nodded again, smiling shyly, and Steve stood up, guiding PEter to sit back down with his fancywork.  “Go ahead and finish that. I’ll be back in a few moments.”

 

He stepped out of the room and looked at the parcel of letters, at the date. That _bastard_ had sent the first notes when Peter was eleven. Steve went to the front room and collected Stane’s hat, coat, and stick, and entered Tony’s drawing-room.  The group stared at him as he walked to Stane’s chair and thrust his belongings onto his lap, “Get out,” he said coldly, and held out the bundle of letters to Tony, “And be damned grateful this dress has nowhere to put my switchblade.”

 

“What is the- you little-” he puffed himself up, looming over Steve, even as Tony looked at the letters, eyes flickering over the page.  His face drained of blood, and Rhodey caught his elbow as he swayed.

 

“I may be little,” Steve snarled, “But I’m not an innocent, and your game, sir, will not work on me. Get. Out.”

 

Tony’s hands clenched on the paper, “Get out,” he said, “And if you’ve touched him, if I find you’ve - you-”

 

Obadiah fled, and Tony sank back in his chair, staring at the letters.  “Steve,” he said, “Where is Peter?”

 

“He came to me,” Steve said quietly, “Because he was frightened. He’s still…” he let the sentence trail away, because somehow he couldn’t bring himself to speak aloud.

 

“I’ll go to our solicitors,” Pepper stood, straightening her suit jacket, “And we’ll cut him out of the company.”

 

“Rhodey, go speak to the police,” Steve said, “But I doubt they’ll-”

 

“They won’t do anything,” Tony said quietly, “And I don’t want Peter dragged into that _muck_.  No. But Pepper? Make sure _everyone_ knows.”

 

“Oh, I will,” she nodded, “He’ll never find work again.” She took Rhodes’ arm, and they swept out. Steve looked across the table at Tony, and slowly sat down.

 

“Going to say ‘I told you so’?” Tony asked bitterly.

 

“No,” Steve shrugged, “I wish I weren’t. I’m going to say ‘thank God, can I get you some tea?’”

 

“What?” Tony raised his head from his hands, staring at him.

 

“Thank God. Can I get you some tea?”

 

“ _Tea?_ ”

 

“Coffee won’t help just now. Peter’s fine. You listened when it counted, and when I wasn’t just jumping to conclusions based on him grabbing my arse and mistaking me for a maid.”

 

“He _what_?”

 

Steve shrugged, “I’m having some tea.” he rang the bell.

 

“Some chocolate for Peter,” Tony sighed, “And perhaps cake for all of us. I’m going to go wash, and then… we’ll go to a concert. Peter likes those-”

 

“Tony,” Steve rested a hand on his wrist, “The bigger fuss you make over him, the more frightened he will be of a threat you’ve removed.  Don’t let him see you’re frightened.”

 

“How can I not?” Tony asked, waving the packet of letters, “I almost - I almost lost him. He’s my son in any way that matters, and I-”

 

“We,” Steve said quietly, “We almost. But we didn’t. We’re scared, sure, Tony, but for him, it’s over. We’re taking care of it. Let him be.”

 

“You’re wiser than I,” Tony relented after a moment, “For all that I’m a genius, you just - you understand him.  I love him, but you - you understand him.”

 

“We’re similar,” Steve shrugged, “And he loves you, too.”  The maid entered, and Steve smiled at her, “Can we have a tea tray? With some chocolate, too - and cake?” She bobbed a curtsey and left, and Steve looked at Tony, “A concert might be too much, but a treat with you and me won’t go amiss.” He stood, “Hide those.”

 

Tony nodded, watching Steve with an expression on his face Steve had never seen before.  He shrugged it off, calling Peter to table.  “Your father and I have decided you’re old enough,” he said seriously, and Peter looked _terrified_ , “We are going to teach you to play poker.” He grinned at the twin expressions facing him across the table.

 

“Definitely,” Tony laughed, brightening, “And there’s cake.”

 

Steve picked up the deck of cards and cut it, smiling at his boys.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding family and coming home.

Tony tucked Peter into bed and sat beside him until he fell asleep.  He’d come so close to losing his sweet boy - his mind shied away from the thought as he kissed his forehead and turned out the lamp, turning to go.  He startled a little as he saw Steve standing in the doorway, wrapped in a dressing gown, smiling at them. “You’re a good father,” Steve said softly, “He’s lucky to have you.”

 

Steve had no  _ idea _ how wrong he was, and Tony never wanted him to find out any differently.  “I try,” he said, stepping out of the room and closing the door softly behind him, “He’s a wonderful boy. Better than I deserve, by half.”  He swallowed tightly, and words rose in his throat, unbidden, “So are you. Better than I deserve.”

 

“I’m not so sure about that,” Steve said wryly, “But you’re kind to say so.” he turned to go to his own room for the night, and that, suddenly, was something Tony could no longer bear.

 

“Marry me,” he blurted, “Please.”

 

Steve turned to look at him, frowning, “We  _ are _ married, Tony.”

 

“You and I both know that’s not true. Steve, I love you. I love how stubborn you are, and how kind, and- I want to be your husband in truth, not just -”

 

Recognition dawned across Steve’s face, and he nodded, slowly, “I didn’t know,” he said, “That you could want me, like that.”

 

“That I  _ could _ ? I’ve wanted you since I saw you in our dooryard,” Tony laughed brokenly, “And I didn’t even know you existed until that moment - Peter sent for you,” he admitted, and Steve’s eyes widened, “He used my name and accounts and - and I have never been so happy with a gift in my life. Please, Steve,” he sank to one knee, holding out his hand, reaching desperately for happiness, “Please, won’t you marry me?” Steve’s smile was small and warm as he bent to take Tony’s face in his hands, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

 

“Come to bed,” Steve breathed, “Husband.”

  
  


The sweetness of being wanted and cherished by his little family never stopped surprising Steve at the oddest moments, though his heart still ached sometimes for all he’d left in a little Brooklyn apartment.  He woke on his birthday, scooting himself from Tony’s arms - he mumbled and whined, but Steve kissed him and he quieted, slipping back to sleep. He went downstairs to find breakfast started, and Peter hovering over a kettle of hot oil, cursing it. 

 

“Pete?” he yawned, “You’re - oh, sweetie, you didn’t have to make me fritters-”

 

“I know you love apple fritters,” Peter said, “And Tony was supposed to keep you in bed!”

 

“He fell asleep,” Steve grinned, sitting at the table, “And - if you don’t mind, I think I  _ will _ just sit here, after I - oh, you made me my tea!” he took the cup Peter handed him, the strong, sweet ginger and mint fragrance tingling in his nose. He took a sip and sighed gratefully, putting his feet on the chair opposite.  He was past the worst stages of morning sickness, thankfully, but the tea still helped him, and while it could never replace coffee in his heart, it would do in a pinch.

 

There was a knock at the door, and Steve went to answer it, since Peter was focused on dipping the apple rings in the boiling oil.  Who on earth would come so early? Thank goodness he’d put on a decent outfit, and brushed his hair. He opened the door even as he heard Tony coming down the steps two at a time behind him, whistling, and stared.

 

“Room for a few more, Stevie?” Bucky grinned at him, and Mama Barnes ducked under his arm to pull Steve into her arms, cooing at him. 

 

“Don’t be smart, James, he’s too surprised to sass you,” She said, and Becca grinned as Steve finally recovered enough to cling to Mama Barnes, burying his face in her neck and both laughing and sobbing.

 

“What are you  _ doing _ here?” he asked, “How - can you stay a while, I want-” oh, how he  _ wanted _ them here to meet his and Tony’s baby, for Mama Barnes to be there when he had to lie-in, for Bucky to hold the baby and tease him, for Becca and Peter to be friends - he looked to Tony, knowing his face was full of pleading, and not caring a scrap.  His husband would understand-

 

“Well,” Tony said as Mama Barnes released him and Bucky scooped him up into a tight hug, “Barnes here answered an advertisement I placed for a mail-order business partner. Figured I did so well with my mail-order bride, I may as well give it a try!”

 

“What he’s saying, Stevie, is we’re here to stay,” Bucky said, “All’ve us.”’

 

There were no words for the joy Steve felt as he wriggled loose from Bucky’s hug and flung himself at Tony, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him right there in the foyer, in front of God and everybody. “Thank you,” he whispered, “For giving me my family back.”

 

“Honey,” Tony said, just as soft, as if they were alone in their bedroom and the dark, “It’s thanks to you I have a family at all.”

 

“I made fritters,” Peter called, “And coffee, and you all had  _ better _ come eat them, or I  _ swear _ -” Steve laughed, leading the way from the foyer to the heart of their home to have breakfast with all his family, his fingers laced through Tony’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! Thank you for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed! If you have, please think of leaving me a comment or kudos! I'll treasure them like Steve with a lace pattern. :)


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